When the Porch Feels Cold and Quiet
When the Porch Feels Cold and Quiet
There are days when the porch feels like a sacred place—full of life, sunlight, prayer, and hope.
And then, there are days when it feels cold.
Quiet.
Still.
The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels empty.
If you’ve ever sat in that kind of silence, you’re not alone.
I remember a night when I stood at the door and looked out onto our porch. The light was still on, like always, but everything else felt… hollow. No music. No footsteps. No laughter echoing back inside. Just the wind, the ache, and my own tired prayers.
Waiting for a prodigal isn’t a Pinterest-perfect kind of faith. It’s a deep, gritty, often unseen kind of faith that whispers, “I’ll keep showing up, even when nothing’s changing.”
And in the cold silence, you still have to keep going.
You still show up for the ones who stayed.
You still attend the birthday parties, light the candles, laugh at the jokes.
You wipe the counters and hold conversations with friends whose griefs are different than yours—while quietly feeling like yours might just be the deepest cut of all.
You keep participating in life with a heart split down the middle:
One side aching.
One side giving.
Both sides somehow still beating.
And you think to yourself, How am I even functioning?
Because some days, you don’t feel present. You’re doing the things, saying the words, getting through the day—but it’s like you're absent from your own body. You feel hollow and heavy all at once.
And still, the Lord carries you.
You don’t know how—only that He does.
You’re still standing. Still breathing. Still praying.
And you’ve had to will yourself to hold on.
To keep loving.
To not let this battle win.
That, my friend, is a miracle too.
Luke 15 reminds us:
“But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him…” (Luke 15:20, ESV)
How did the father see him?
Because he was still watching. Still waiting. Still believing.
So on the days when the porch feels too quiet, remember this:
The silence doesn’t mean surrender.
Your faithfulness is not wasted.
Your presence in the stillness matters.
Your light still shines—even if only Heaven sees it.
God sees. God hears. And God is still working—even in the quiet, cold places.
Let’s keep the porch light on together.
Let’s hold space for both the grief and the grace.
And let’s believe that even in the silence, resurrection is coming.
